I'll Still Say Goodbye
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PostRENT] Direct sequel to Lesson Number One. Mark leaves the loft for good. MarkRoger. [One shot]


**Disclaimer:** Mark and Roger belong to Mr. Larson, of course—maybe if I _did_ own then, they'd cooperate better. The lyrics belong to Anthony Rapp, whom we all should worship (despite the fact that he _says_ he wants people to treat him like a normal guy). I also hijacked lyrics from "Do You Know What It's Like" from _Zanna, Don't_, which, by the way, is _wonderful_. I know that song didn't exist in the time frame of the fic, but I don't care. Pretend.

**Notes:** This story is the direct sequel to "Lesson Number One", because apparently I couldn't get enough of the angstyness the first time around. Don't worry, I'll make sure to get Mark and Roger back together… eventually… The two of them are in an angsty mood lately. At least this time we get sex out of them… granted, not as explicit as in the stories my girlfriend writes, but nevertheless… Oh, and I know the mood of the story differs from the mood of the song, so if you've heard the song, then bear with me. (I was hoping for more shouting and Angry!Mark, but… he wouldn't cooperate.) Also, this is the longest single one-shot fic I've ever written. Just thought I'd mention that. Also, thank you _so_ much to my wonderful beta reader, Laura, whom I love and adore for fixing all of my weirdness in the first draft of this.

* * *

_Sometimes you need more than too much of me  
__Sometimes you give nothing back  
__What did you think—  
__I would just hang around and watch you take?  
__Sometimes you give nothing at all_

_I don't care anymore  
__Say what you want to say  
__I'll still say goodbye  
__I don't care anymore  
__I can't give another day  
__It's too late_

The door slammed shut, the sound of it far too final to Mark's ears. Fearful he might change his mind if he hesitated, he strode across the room, shouldered open the door to his own bedroom, and all but threw himself at the closet. Shoving past a few old and worn coats, he pulled out an old duffel bag he hadn't used for ages—not since he'd moved into the loft in the first place. He swallowed hard at that thought, blinked back a haze of tears, and tossed the bag onto his bed.

"I have to do this," he said aloud as he stepped around his bed to get to the dresser. "I don't have a _choice_." He opened one of the drawers and began dumping clothes into his bag carelessly, not bothering to actually fold anything or attempt any sort of organization. The sooner he was done packing and out the door, the less chance he would turn back.

The clothing didn't take long to pack, but… Mark paused. His film. There was too much of it scattered about the loft for him to possibly take all or even most of it with him. But neither could he leave it all. Ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was making a mistake, Mark made his way back into the living room, to the semi-functional projector and the piles of film surrounding it.

He bent and picked up the top reel of film from one of the piles. It was labeled "Roger and Mimi – 4/11/98." Mark grimaced. Shot only a month ago—before Mimi had died, though he'd been able to see then how close she was to death. He remembered the day he'd filmed this all too well, remembered exactly what the film would show without having to put it in the projector. Mimi, sick, barely hanging on, had fallen asleep on the couch: the kind of deep, drained sleep she'd been slipping into more and more often. Roger, hardly absent from her side in those last days, sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms, then just held her and rocked her like a child, singing softly to her, love songs, lullabies, seemingly anything that popped into his head. He'd never even noticed Mark was filming him.

The filmmaker closed his eyes and set the reel of film back down. What had happened to _that_ Roger? What had happened to the other Roger he loved, the young, beautiful rock star; the teasing near-brother; the gently protective best friend; anything but what he had become?

_More likely to go to drugs for comfort than the people that care about him… Well, we're through, Roger. I'm not going to be around to pull you out of this one._

Despite the bitterness of the thought, he couldn't help but pick up another reel of film from a second stack, unlabeled except for the date it must have been shot, mid-August of last year. Mark hesitated, knowing it would be a mistake to see what was on that film, but something compelled him to slip it into the projector, turn it on. A somewhat blurry image appeared on the wall, faded in the light of the room, the soft sound of voices coming from the projector. Automatically, Mark got to his feet to turn out the light, adjust the focus, turn up the volume. The picture clarified, the voices becoming audible, and Mark drew in a sharp, pained breath as he recognized the scene.

The image projected on the wall showed the loft, the light through the windows in the picture pale and gray, suggesting a rainy day. Roger sat cross-legged on the table, picking out a tune on his guitar without seeming to pay much attention to it. Mimi sat on the table beside him, her legs curled underneath her, arms draped gracefully around Roger's neck with her chin resting on his shoulder.

Roger had started to play the opening chords of "Your Eyes", and Mimi giggled as she recognized "her song." The camera zoomed in on their faces, Mimi's smile bright and energetic despite her constantly waning health, perennially bright and optimistic, Roger less cheerful perhaps, but obviously perfectly content, a teasing smirk touching his lips, raising one eyebrow slightly when he glanced sideways at Mimi. As he played, the song shifted to something different entirely, Roger adding little flourishes here and there, then more elaborate changes to the tune.

Mark smiled slightly and leaned closer to see the picture better. Roger must have been improvising, because Mark hadn't heard that tune once before or after that one instance. He had always loved to hear Roger making up something on the spot; Mark knew he only ever did it when he was truly happy and at ease. After a moment, though, the filmmaker winced slightly. It was a side of Roger he'd never see again. Hell, he'd never see _any _side of Roger again.

In the video, Mimi nudged Roger slightly and requested, "Roger, baby, play something we can sing to. Please?"

Roger grinned at her indulgently. Mimi had used to sing with Roger now and then, and she did have a rather good voice even if she never sang seriously. The camera zoomed back out as Roger at last nodded in concession, pausing in his playing for a moment. "Alright, I will, but…" He looked up at the camera—no, over the camera, to where Mark must have been at the time. "Only if Mark sings with us."

Off-camera, Mark's own startled voice said, "_Me_? But…Roger…You know I can't sing."

Roger rolled his eyes and lifted one hand to beckon Mark towards him. "Come on," he coaxed, flashing a challenging smile. "You can too sing. Not well, but you can."

There was an audible sigh, and the camera shifted as it was set down, still running, on some flat surface, pointed still at Mimi and Roger. After a moment, Mark walked on-camera, cautiously sitting on the table a short distance from the other two. He glanced to Roger. "What are we singing?"

"You'll see," Roger answered softly, starting to play something on the guitar once more. On-camera Mark jumped when he recognized the tune. Roger glanced up at him and inclined his head slightly to one side. "You take the first part, Mark."

Mark swallowed hard, waited for a moment, and then hesitantly begun to sing, his voice slightly off-key, not half as polished as Roger's or even Mimi's._ "Do you know what it's like to be in love with you,"_ he had sung, eyes closed, head bowed, his voice gaining strength and clarity as he went on,_ "to have my heart still love you when my mind knows it's not true?"_ Even through the coldly observant camera lens, it was clear that he was struggling with the song. Not with the song itself, for he seemed to be managing that fairly well, but with the emotions behind it. Not producing the emotion—controlling it._ "Do you know what it's like to be in love with you, not to remember what life was like before I first met you?" _Somehow, he managed to make his way through the rest of his part of the song, the last not-quite-on-pitch "Oh do you know?" coming out slightly broken.

Mark looked down, away from the camera, away from Roger, and made a visible effort to compose himself.

Why had Roger picked that song in the first place? Mark wondered as he watched. What had he been thinking? He was tempted to shut off the projector then and there, but then Roger started to sing, and he couldn't help but lean closer, to see what he could of the Roger-that-was, even if he could have never been his. As his eyes followed Roger's every move on camera, he pressed his fingers to his lips, recalling that first, last kiss in the hospital. God. Could he leave this? Could he leave _him_?

Roger seemed completely focused on his guitar as he began to sing, his head bent over the instrument, and somehow his voice made the sweet love song almost more of a rock song. _"Do you know what it's like not to be in love with you, not to have my heart obey what my mind wants to be true?"_  
Mimi had closed her eyes, head tilted to one side as she listened to Roger. But Roger looked straight at Mark on the next line, though Mark, with his face turned away, didn't see._ "Do you know what it's like not to be in love with you, but to like you, love you, cherish you, idolize you and protect you?" _His expression softened as he looked at Mark, both affection and pain in his eyes. Even in the slightly blurry image cast by the projector, even viewed through a camera lens, recorded on film over half a year ago and since then unseen, that look was unmistakable.

Mark recoiled in surprise. Roger couldn't have… He didn't… Surely he had imagined that because it was what he wanted to see.

The sound of the door to the loft opening behind him made Mark jump and all but dive to turn off the projector. Surprised as he was, he didn't quite manage to turn it off properly on the first try. The picture flickered out, but the sound continued, Roger's rough and oddly soft voice drifting out, _"Do you know what it's like to have to let go of your hand, and to start a new life, a life I don't understand, and live the rest of my life knowing how much I've hurt you?"_ The filmmaker winced and pushed the power button once more, shutting it off completely.

From behind him, Roger's voice said pleadingly, "Don't go."

Startled, Mark spun around to find Roger standing directly behind him, his face pale, blue eyes wide and desperate. He tensed, meeting Roger's eyes for a split second before looking away, at his feet, at the floor, anywhere but at Roger. "Why did they let you out of the hospital? You should still be in bed." God, he could still see the track marks on the inside of his arm, the needle mark from the IV.

"I made them let me go. I had to… I had to keep you here." He reached for Mark's hand, but Mark took a step back, pulling away. Roger bit his lip. "Mark… I l—"

"_Don't_," Mark said, more sharply than he intended. "Don't say that." _Don't make me stay. _He stepped around Roger, careful not to so much as brush him as he passed, and started back towards his room. He had to leave. Now. Grab his bag, shove his camera and some old bits and pieces of film in it, then get _out_, before Roger made him change his mind. He stopped dead when Roger grabbed hold of his arm. Without looking at him, Mark said slowly, "Roger. Let go of me."

Not releasing his arm, Roger moved around to stand in front of Mark, shifting his hold on him to grip both of his shoulders. "No. If I let go of you, you're going to walk away and I'm never going to see you again and _I need you_." The last three words came out as a hoarse whisper, opening a crack in the armor around Mark's heart.

Mark shoved Roger away so hard that the taller man stumbled backwards and almost fell. Before Roger could recover, Mark shouldered past him and into the bedroom, grabbing his bag and hurriedly dropping his camera into it, along with a few more pieces of clothing to pad the camera. "No no no no no," he whispered to himself as he tried to blink back tears. "I'm not going to let him do this to me, I'm not going to let him lie again, I'm not…"

He trailed off with a shiver as Roger walked up behind him, sliding his hands down Mark's arms until he reached his wrists, then gently gripping them and pulling his hands away from the bag. "Mark," Roger said softly, his mouth right next to Mark's ear. He had pulled Mark back against him, Mark's back pressed against his chest, Roger's chin resting on Mark's shoulder. Before Mark could try to pull away, he wrapped his arms around him, still strong despite just getting out of the hospital. "Stay. Please, just stay." He kissed Mark's neck gently, and the filmmaker drew a slow, shaky breath, clenching his jaw and trying to ignore the way his heart leapt at that touch. Mark shuddered as Roger murmured against his neck, "If you go, I've got nothing left. Mark… tell me what to do, tell me what you need to stay. Just don't go."

Mark turned around in his arms and looked up into Roger's face, his entire body trembling with the struggle to rein in his emotion. He lifted his arms to shove Roger away, but somehow his hands on Roger's shoulders tightened convulsively to pull him closer. "Roger. I have to go. I can't be around you anymore, can't watch you kill your—"

Roger took his face in his hands and cut him off with a firm kiss. "I'm not going to. I swear, with you around I won't ever, ever do it again. But if you leave…I can't…" He trailed off and shook his head helplessly. He still hadn't let go of Mark's face, his hands cupping both cheeks, one thumb running lightly over his cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looked down at his friend. After a few seconds, he leaned down to kiss him again.

"Roger, don't…" Mark whispered just before their lips met, even that protest weak and half-hearted, and he didn't even try to push the larger man away. Before long, he gave up fighting it completely as clothes fell to the floor, hands and lips trailed over bare skin, and all rational thought faded completely.

* * *

With his ear pressed against Roger's chest, Mark could hear the gentle whisper of breath as his chest rose and fell, the slow and steady thump of his heartbeat. He was tempted to just close his eyes and fall asleep there, forget everything that had happened, the drugs, Roger's lies, pretend that this could work and nothing existed but the here and now with Roger's arm around him and Roger's heartbeat in his ear… but he knew pretending wouldn't make it so.

Slowly, he slid out from under Roger's arm, careful not to wake him, and slipped out of the bed, carefully searching on the bedside table for his glasses. Once he found them, he put them on and glanced to Roger once more. He bit his lip. Even sleeping, his musician had the slightly arrogant beauty of a fallen angel. Unable to restrain himself, Mark leaned over and ran his fingers lightly through Roger's hair, traced his fingers over his face. Roger whimpered softly in his sleep and shifted restlessly, kicking at the sheets tangled around his legs. Mark pulled his hand back quickly and leaned down to kiss Roger's forehead.

He turned away and pulled on his clothes hurriedly, winding his scarf around his neck despite the fact that it was mid-May, as a final defense against the world. _There you go,_ he reassured himself. _Now just go grab your bag, walk out the door, don't look back. That's all you have to do. Simple._ But as he reached for his bag, something made him stop and pull out his camera. He turned it on, pointed it towards the bed, at Roger… and simply stood there for a minute or two, watching him sleep. Several times, he had to look away and blink tears from his eyes, but he kept the camera steady. He wanted this moment. Forever.

At last, Mark forced himself to turn off the camera and turn away from the bed. Camera still in hand, he picked up his bag with the other hand and carefully lugged it out of the bedroom. He stopped just outside the room, though, and pulled out a new reel of film from his duffel bag, exchanging that for the one he had just shot. This time, when he turned the camera on, he held it at arm's length, pointed at himself.

"Roger…" He took a deep breath and looked momentarily away from the camera lens before deciding to start over. "I'm sorry. I want to stay more than anything, but I can't. The next time this happens, the next time you start to fall apart… I can't let myself be around to watch it. I… This is goodbye, Roger. For good, this time."

He lowered the camera and started to turn it off, but something compelled him to turn it around again and whisper despairingly, "I love you." He shut off the camera and pulled out the reel of film before carefully tiptoeing back into the bedroom and setting it down alongside Roger on the bed. Hopefully he would have the sense to play it when he found it.

Not allowing himself to linger over Roger any longer, Mark rushed out of the bedroom, picked up his bag on the way out, and kept walking out of the loft. For a moment, he halted just outside, looking back at the place that had been his home, his world, for so long… and then closed the door.


End file.
